Harry Potter and the Inebriated Author
by Batben
Summary: What's the deal with fan fiction? Harry Potter has fallen victim to the whims of an inebriated, procrastinating college student. What will happen? Probably not much, to be honest.
1. Chapter 1: A Stupid Start

**A/N**

Alright you sons of bitches, here it is. Something I've been meaning to do for a while. Ya boi here decided, after reading some good ass fan fiction, to write some bad ass fan fiction. And not bad ass in the good way. Am I making any sense? Probably not. And that's for the best. This here's a Harry Potter fan fiction, written while I'm inebriated. It's ok, too. I'm 21. I'm drinking a Shiner Strawberry Beer. Tasty stuff, I might say. This is not a paid sponsorship.

Here's some basic premise. None of this is planned out. I'm just gonna write shit as I feel it. Don't expect well-written crackfic. I may do some time travel shit, I may do some erotic shit, I don't know. All I know is that you won't see me calling Hermione "'Mione," you won't see Harry Potter being a fuckin young ass Albert Einstein, if I include Luna she won't be some sort of God or some shit, Harry won't be some savant with Goblin folk (srsly that bugs the fuck out of me), the Dursleys won't be running Harry through a sado-masochistic gauntlet, none of that most noble and ancient house of potter shit (that stuff bugs me even more), and no fuckin harems either. these kids are like 12. Wait till they're 18 for that kinky shit, jfc. Also Harry Crow will get kicked in the balls by Harry muthafuckin Orca.

Harry Potter belongs to JK Rowling etc etc what you see in the start of every one of these piles of steaming wizard turd.

"Ow, ooh, owie," Harry said, having bumped his head on the backside of a stair, "I really oughta lay off the xannies. They sure do put me over."

Harry Potter was no ordinary boy—he was a wizard. A few weeks ago, a giant man named Hagrid revealed it all. His parents had been a witch and a wizard. They'd attended a school for magic in Scotland, and now it was his turn to attend. Harry wasn't sure whether it was the xanax hangover, or the fact that he had just hit his head, but he wasn't feeling super hot. Today was the day where he would move all of his stuff to his cousin Dudley's second bedroom. Why that asshole needed a second room was beyond Harry's knowledge. But Harry wasn't used to questioning his Aunt and Uncle's strange decisions. They hated magic—and by proxy, they hated him.

Harry roundhouse-kicked the cupboard door open (truly a feat, considering the lack of room in a cupboard), emitting a loud "HIIIIIIII-YA." Vernon Dursley looked up from his morning cup of coffee and shook his head. For a brief moment, Harry thought he recognized a look of terror on his face. The look of terror became a look of fear. The look of fear became a look of anger. The look of anger became a look of hate. And the look of hate became a look of suffering. Harry thought that was a nice little phrase there. He made a mental note of selling it at some future point. Also harry's a seer. This will never be touched on again.

Harry whistled to himself as he carried his shit up the stairs. Not his actual literal shit, but you know, his few personal belongings. He dropped them in his room and then promptly dropped trou in front of Dudley's door. Harry knew Dudley's routine by heart. In approximately 5 seconds, Dudley would leave the door and head downstairs. This time, Harry was prepared. Dudley opened the door to an unexpected walk in the moonlight, when he expected a walk in the morning sunlight instead.

"Mummy, Harry has exposed his derrière to me! I wish to press charges!"

Harry wasn't sure exactly what the fuck was going on. He never remembered Dudley being such a whiny little bitch. Harry giggled and walked into his new bedroom. His new owl hedwig was already chilling in her cage on his dresser.

"H-h-h-how are you doing, Hedwig?" Harry stammered.

"Jus chillin', you know what i mean?" Hedwig responded, despondently.

"You… you… you…. you… you… you… you can talk?" Harry ejaculated.

"Nah, man, you're still on them xans, my man—ha HA! chill tf out my dude," Hedwig articulated. (A/N I've used these shitty words intentionally).

Harry woke up, collapsed on the floor of his new bedroom. Had this morning been a dream? In the background, he heard Dudley bitchin and moaning about having seen Harry's ass first hand. Nope. Harry figured he passed out after coming in through the door.

The rest of the month went by swimmingly for Harry. So swimmingly that he blacked out and couldn't remember anything to write. Soon enough, he was at King's Cross Station, prepared to board the Hogwarts Express **(A/N I went there when I was young and took a picture where Harry busted thru the barrier and I showed the kids in my class and told them I got through. Also when I was even younger I thought Harry Potter was real and lived on the roof of my school)**. Only problem was, how the fuck was this little son of a bitch gonna manage to get on the train?

FIND OUT NEXT CHAPTER ON: HARRY POTTER AND THE INEBRIATED AUTHOR


	2. Chapter 2: A Crappy Continuation

**Author's Note: Ya boi is back. It's been a long few weeks, churning out schoolwork and the like, but it's a friday evening, I'm going out later, and I'm two beers in. Currently sipping on an odd mixture of cherry apple cider and tequila. Last chapter left off in a kind of weird place. I had a really good idea for where to take it, but I kind of forgot. I have more important things to worry about, like the working class.**

This shit is JK Rowling's. Not mine. Yada yada. The characters are at least, not the shenanigans they'll get up to. Oh fuck yes I just remembered something I wanted to address but thought I'd forgotten.

It turns out, it's easy to get on a train. You step on it you fuckin pricks. Hahaha, just messing. **(A/N There's always some bullshit here about how Harry notices the Weasleys talking about muggles. Wasn't it kind of fucked that Molly Weasley was talkin about muggles so loud in the middle of a public space? I know if I were in a crowded place and some red haired woman was talking about a place being packed with muggles i'd want to know what a muggle was. Also isn't that kind of like going to a place filled with some sort of minority and using a new slur to describe them?)** Harry felt lost on the platform of Kings Cross Station. He swept his lime green eyes—reminiscent of his mother's eyes, by the way—across the platform, hoping to get even a brief glimpse at somebody on platform nine and 3/4 **(A/N is it wrong to change from words to numbers there? I hope it is.).** Just as he was about to give up hope, he heard an ear shattering scream in his ear, "THIS PLACE IS ALWAYS FILLED WITH THESE FUCKING NO MAGIC SHITFUCKERS, KIDS."

Harry was a little distraught. He'd heard this kind of language as his Aunt and Uncle senselessly beat him and abused him and didn't let him figure out how many bites it was to the center of a tootsie roll pop **(A/N I know I said they wouldn't be sadomasochists. I'm just being inconsistent like most other fuckers here).**

"E-excuze me," Harry asked, having pressed the wrong key on the keyboard, "are y'all going to platform 9 and three quarters?"

The red haired woman peered at him over the rim of her glasses. Her son was idly whacking it by the side. Actually no, fuck that, I said this wasn't gonna be one of those weird fuckin fics. Her son, who Harry could somehow tell was the second youngest, was idly drooling by the side, no doubt dreaming of treacle tart. Harry hoped she hadn't noticed his accidental adaptation of American Southern affectation. "YES, YA LITTLE BASTARD. WHAT ARE THESE MUGGLES DOIN IN MAH STATION," she retorted calmly. "YA NEED TO RUN YOUR WEE LITTLE BASTARD HEAD INTO THAT WALL OVER THERE."

"Um, are you fucking kidding me?" Harry asked inquisitively. "No, seriously. Did you mean that? I wouldn't be surprised with the rest of the weird shit wizards do. But what if the magic stops working for a period of time or some shit? A nasty little bugger like me could get a concussion."

"LOGICAL THINKING, EH? I RECKON YOU WERE RAISED BY THIS NON MAGIC SHIT FUCKERS, WEREN'T YA?"

"You know what, I reckon I'll run at the wall. Best case scenario I won't have to put up with your shit anymore." Harry exhaled, reckoning that the author shouldn't have used both words in such close succession. Hedwig turned and gave him a quizzical look. "Oh fuck off with your judgement, Hedwig. You know she was mental." Harry flexed his soon-to-be muscle-toned quidditch abs and ran into a pillar. Much to his dismay, he didn't crash, but instead found himself in a room with some big red train in it.

Harry turned to some little woman in a pointed hat, "Is this thing coal-powered? Isn't that a little… I don't know… out of date?" The woman stepped on his foot and walked off in a huff. Harry got on the train, by stepping on. After the weird shit he'd already experienced today, he just wanted a quiet space to himself.

Unfortunately for the black-haired griffindor (A/N wait fuck we're not there yet) every cart… every stall… every uhhh COMPARTMENT! Every compartment was full. The last one at the very far end had only one person in it. This fellow appeared very similar to Harry, though he was dressed in odd 19th century garb.

"'Scuse me, mind if I sit here?" Harry inquired, as if he was talking to himself in a mirror.

"Refer to me as Lord Raven, you peasant swine," Harry's sort-of doppelgänger replied.

"Are you fucking kidding me…" Harry murmured. "Fine… Lord," he rolled his eyes, "Raven. Could I join you?"

"Yes, you may. But I do warn you, you should address me with proper respect. I was raised by goblins you know," Lord Raven huffed.

"You mean those green bastards from World of Warcraft? They're like the shittiest race, dude. And you mean to tell me they're real?" Harry realized he fucked up. This Raven fellow had gone red in the face. His eyes were murderous. Before he knew it, Lord Raven was at his neck with some weird knife or some shit. Harry was beyond caring at this point.

"HOW DARE YOU INSULT MY PEOPLE, SWINE. GOBLINS DESERVE RESPECT. IF YOU DISRESPECT ME, YOU DISRESPECT ALL GOBLINS," Raven recited.

"Dude, chill the fuck out. I don't know why you're so upset," Harry uttered.

"I am a goblin," Raven ejaculated, exasperated.

"Jesus fuck," Harry murmured, "they're all nutters." **(A/N Pouring myself another one, brb. Though for you it'll take as long as finishing this sentence. Fuck. I think i made it a bit too strong. Oh well, my parents didn't raise a quitter. They also didn't raise a disappointment, yet here I am.)** "You know," Harry continued, "You'd think a school would have rules against bringing weapons. Yet every student, save yourself for some reason, carries the equivalent of a fucking bomb in their back pocket. You know my parents were killed by one of these wand things? And apparently a shit ton more wizards were, too?"

"Pish posh, you wizardkind are all the same. All brutal, anti-goblin vermin," Raven responded.

"Ok, seriously, cut that nobility shit out. It's really fucking annoying," Harry said **(A/N I don't feel like googling more synonyms).**

"IS THAT A CHALLENGE FOR A DUEL, PEASANT?" Raven spoke **(A/N I lied)**

"Fine. Best case scenario you kill me and I'm done with this shit," Harry responded.

"EXCELLENT! In that case, for my champion I name myself, Harry Raven, to fight for myself," Raven said **(A/N fuck)**

"You're kidding. Your name is also Harry? How are we supposed to keep track of this? Can I call you a nickname? Rarry or something? Nah, that's dumb."

"WHOMSTDVE IS YOUR CHAMPION?" Raven asked.

"Uh, I guess I name myself, Harry Pott—you know what, no. fuck that. I'm Harry MUTHAFUCKIN ORCA, in THIS BITCH."

All of a sudden, the compartment door opened, "Are you talking about nicknames?" A bushy haired girl asked.

"Now who the fuck are you?" Harry asked.

"I'm Hermione, but everybody calls me Mione." Responded Mione.

"That's fuckin dumb," Harry responded, "both the name and the nickname. I'm gonna call you Bush for the way your hair is. (A/N wait, not that type of fanfic. sorry hold up.) I'm gonna call you Dr. Spock, because you've got ears more powerful than you should. Now can you hang on a second, I'm about to kick this prick's ass."

"Oh, my, a duel! I've read all about those in Hogwarts: A History," Dr. Spock responded.

"Great. Thank you for sharing. So, Raven-fucker—I mean, Lord Raven, how do these work?"

Raven was seething. Steam was coming out of his ears or some shit. idk. He jumped towards Harry with his knife in his hand. Harry kicked him in the balls (A/N like I promised). He flew out the window, like a chocolate frog. That's about it. Maybe Ron comes in next chapter and drools or something.


	3. Chapter 3: A Rage-inducing Ronald

**(A/N) Greetings. Salutations. Shalom. I'm back. Now, admittedtly, I'm more sober than I usually have been before. I've had 2 IPAs tonight. Currently drinking this one called Rapunzel from Arcadia Ales. Incidentally, it was brewed with Michigan Hops. This is not a sponsorship. Rather, my sobriety may have emerged as a result of my eating a turkey sandwich, or my general cynical self-reflection in the past few days. I can't write narrative for shit. I'm so used to writing research papers and other sorts of incendiary prose that I can't really do this stuff. Never the less (Yes, I meant to space it like that) here's Chapter 3. Let me just remember what I'd previously written. Ok done.**

 _Previously on Harry Potter and the Inebriated Author. Harry kicked Harry crow in the cock and he flew out the window of the Hogwarts Express. Though you probably know that, seeing as this page was the click of a button away for you the reader and not a month and a half away for me the writer._

 _Speaking of which (but not actually even related) is there such thing as Wizard Comedy? Are there Wizard Comedians? Does a Wizard Jerry Seinfeld (Harry Seinfeld?) ever go on stage and say, "Hey, what's the deal with Transfiguration?" I don't know how lucrative that would be, since wizards seem to be barely intelligent enough to cope for themselves let alone understand humor and nuance._

 _Also, I never really made it clear what happened at the end of the last chapter. I'm leaving it to you, the reader, to fill in the holes left by me, the unreliable narrator and author._

After having promptly kicked the young Lord Harry Crow in the peen and out the window, Harry took a seat in the cart. His newfound companion Hermione—or rather, Dr. Spock—stared at him in awe and amazement.

"Did you really just kick that kid in the dick? And did he realyl fly out the window?" She enquired.

"Look, toots," Harry said misogynistically (because who really uses the word toots unless they're talking about a steamboat or being a misogynist), "You done seen it wit your own eyes. So mote it be." Harry paused and continued, "Now are ya gonna sit down or just keep the compartment door open and let out all the cold air?"

"Actually, I'm looking for a toad. A boy named Neville's lost one," she retortded. **(A/N I spelled that wrong but I don't particularly care to change it.)**

"Very well. Go on then, pointy ears," Harry said, referencing the rich cultural icon _Star Trek_. What a great show. As Hermione left the compartment, Harry shuffled around in his seat. He squirmed to and fro. He was bored. Ultimately, he wiggled his hand into his pant pocket and pulled out his iPhone. " _What if Harry had iPhone?"_ he wondered to himself. Now was the chance to see. This was one of the few luxuries he had permitted himself to purchase after he was freed from the Dursleys. He used it to listen to his favorite musical group, the _Village People_ **(A/N no, this isn't that kind of fancfiction)**. Though the Hogwarts Express was decidedly going north, Harry felt for sure that he was going west.

Harry opened up his Facebook app on his phone and saw Dr. Spock—that is, Hermione—had sent him a friend request. Harry opened her profile and swept through her tagged pictures. This young girl he'd just met had quite the proclivity for suggestive anime, it seemed. But who could be blamed—so did Harry. In fact, his profile picture was anime. He smashed that mfin friend request. He continued to scroll through his facebook feed, and noticed that his Uncle Vernon, the one who may or may not have abused him, liked some verkakte asshole politician. Harry was not surprised.

All of the sudden, there was a rap on his compartment door. To Harry's consternation, the drooling redhead had found him.

"Oi, urrrrr open up Harry!"

Harry reluctantly stood up and unlocked the latch from the door. The incapacitated redhead stumbled into the seat opposite Harry. As the other boy sat down, about half a dozen rats escaped from holes in his clothing. "These are my friends!" He shouted, managing to cover Harry in only half a liter of spittle, likely an accomplishment.

"H-h-h-h-h-h-hello," Harry stammered, "I'm Harry. Harry Potter. Are... are you drunk?"

"And I'm Ron. Ron Weasley, and... perhaps," the other bugger responded.

"You know, you've got some spittle dribbling off your chin and onto your groin. It makes it look like you've pissed yourself," Harry said with an air of disgust.

"Ah, yes. It's the newest wizarding fashion. You look like a bit of a twat without it, I'll be honest," literally ejaculated Ron. Like seriously. He was moaning as he said it.

Harry sighed. He turned his head and stared out the window, trying his best to block out the redhead's orgasmic delight **(A/N FUCK IT'S NOT SUPPOSED TO BE ONE OF THOSE FANFICS. TOO LATE)**. Harry shifted uncomfortably in his seat. Finally, after several minutes, Ron's moans subsided into whimpers. And as Ron finished, Harry said, "Was that really fucking necessary?"

"Whaa?" Ron responded.

"No, not you, dumbass. You. Up there. Writing this crap. Why are you making me suffer and experience this shit? How would you like it if you were forced into this exact same situation?" Harry yelled.

 **(A/N Ok, guys, I'm actually a little scared. I feel like I kind of lost control of myself while writing th**

"LISTEN TO ME WHEN I TALK TO YOU, ASSHOLE," Harry yelled louder, "I KNOW YOU KNOW THAT I'M IN CONTROL HERE."

 **No you aren't, you little shit.**

"YES I AM"

 **Fuck off, let me grab another drink.)**

"I swear, get me out of this situation," Harry uttered, "This wizarding shit is weird enough without this ging busting a nut three feet from my fucking face."

 **Aren't y'all like eleven or something?**

"You're the fucked up person writing this. I liked it much better when I was kicking people in the dick and out the window."

 **You know what, you've got a point.** Harry exhaled and pushed his glasses back up the bridge of his nose. He swiped a bit of detritus off the shoulder of his jacket. And he promptly grabbed Ron by the collar and raised his knee into Ron's groin.

"Bloody Hell, Harry, that hurt!" Ron cried.

"Y'know what'll hurt more? This, you bugger," Harry responded, menacingly. Harry opened the window and threw Ron out of it using his magic power or something.

"That's better," Harry said, triumphantly.

 **Harry, you know I can't really write a story about you without this character?**

"Well how about you make him less of a dunce?"

 **I really don't know that I ca—**

"You're the fucking author, just do whatever, or I'm gone for another month."

Harry continued to scroll through his facebook feed, and noticed that his Uncle Vernon, the one who may or may not have abused him, liked some verkakte asshole politician. Harry was not surprised.

All of the sudden, there was a rap on his compartment door. Harry looked up from his phone and saw a familiar looking redhead. He appeared like the one he had seen on the platform, although much less incapacitated, and without a sign of drool. Harry pocketed his phone and unlatched the lock on the door.

"Do you mind?" asked the familiar stranger, "everywhere else is full?"

Harry welcomed this new stranger into his abode. He appeared the same as his predecessor, although Harry did notice he had a lip ring. "I like your… ring," Harry said, gesturing at the sliver of metal along Ron's savory and sensual lips.

"Oh, yeah, this. Thanks. My parents made me get it. It's a chastity ring."


	4. Chapter 4: A Petulant Prank

Authors Complaint:

Why do HP Fanfiction authors always reference fucking movies? It becomes a whole plot point in so many humor fics that the muggleborns teach the wizards about film and shit. Ugh it's super annoying. Anyway, I'm back after another month, a Miller Lite in hand.

You know what, I'm gonna complain more. Another problem I've got is the obsession with pranking. Yeah, the twins do some pranking every now and then but jesus fuck chill out. I hate when teachers refer to the Marauders as the Marauders. And what's more, I think its supremely douchey to have a name like that for your group of friends. Thats legitimately what some people at my HS did, and it's really kinda pathetic imo. Unless it's like double ironic. Why was it celebrated? And why do they always portray Sirius as a fuckin asinine child? Seems they literally did not understand his character besides "hehehe i was funi in wizard high school (hehe high) and im still the same." If I ever get far enough to include Sirius in this shitshow, he's not going to refer to himself as Harry's dogfather, he's not gonna wet his pants over any mention of a prank, and he's not gonna pun literally everything.

I need another drink jfc.

Disclaimer: Fuck you

Reclaimer: I wrote down some complains about a week ago week ago, maybe a week and a half. I was planning on writing some stuff then and there, but I was called for a social function, so this has been on the back burner. Right now, I've decided to pick it back up. Drink of choice: Vodka mixed with bubble tea. Could have been worse. What inspired me tonight were two things: Binge watching Brooklyn 99 and getting very emotionally distraught about the romantic subplots between Jake and Amy and the song "Back Home In Derry" playing on repeat in my head. Gonna listen to that song and then crap out a turd. I guess I truly did get "another drink jfc."

Disclaimer 2: Still fuck you

 **When we last left off, Ron Weasley told Harry he had a chastity nose ring. Also for some reason I pictured him as like a mid-20s something dude with a pony tail. I remembered he's 11.**

"A chastity ring?" Harry asked, "What's that?"

"This ring basically signifies my covenant with my Lord Jesus Christ. I'm saving myself for marriage," Ron retortded.

"Saving what?"

"Why, my purity of course!" Ron said, slurring his words like Jimmy Stewart.

"Are wizarding folk really concerned with this?" Harry enquired.

"Nah, mate" Ron responded, "I'm just pulling your leg. You've been pranked by the Weasleys, the best prancers this school has ever seen."

"Don't you mean prankers?"

"Um, yes. Autocorrect did not change what I had meant to say."

Harry paused. This redheaded kid, who he absolutely had not seen a previous iteration of before, decided the best thing to do when introducing himself was to flat out lie. Was this norm in wizarding culture?

"Um, sorry if this is an odd question. Is pranking normal in wizarding culture?" Harry asked. No sooner than the words had left the lips below his emerald orbs had two twin redheads popped out from within his luggage, spraying him with wizarding silly spray. Harry felt a succinct sting as the foam landed atop his skin. He let out a yelp. "What the FUCK?"

"Sorry,"

"Young"

"Harry," the redheaded twins said in a really disjointed attempt at finishing each others words.

"You've"

"Just"

"Been"

"Pranked by the best." The twin on the left said, certainly because the author couldn't be assed to keep up that charade.

"Wait a second," Harry asked, "how do you know my name?"

"That's just another one of our secrets, Harry m'boy," the twin on the right said. He pulled out a bit of blank parchment and tapped it knowingly, though Harry did not know why he tapped it knowingly.

Harry took off his glasses and massaged the bridge of his nose. This day could not get any weirder. He was still on the train, at least several more hours away from Hogwarts, and yet he'd already met such an odd variety of characters. Very quickly he wondered if there would be consequences for kicking that odd clone of his out the window, but he pushed the thought to the back of his mind. Harry put his glasses back on and saw the twins were still frolicking about the cabin, and spraying Ron, presumably their younger brother, with a variety of odd concoctions. Ron laughed gleefully as he wiped brown liquid from his brow which strongly resembled diarrhea.

Harry pinched his nose and opened the window, hoping to let in a breeze. He plugged in his headphones which he kept stored in his suitcase which doubled as an Italian villa. He closed his eyes and listened to Christy Moore's classic hit "Back Home In Derry."

 _In 1803 we sailed out to sea_

 _Out from the sweet town of Derry_

 _For Australia bound if we didn't all drown_

 _And the marks of our fetters we carried_

 _In our rusty iron chains we cried for our weans_

 _Our good women we left in sorrow_

 _As the mainsails unfurled, our curses we hurled_

 _On the English, and thoughts of tomorrow_

Harry opened his eyes and saw Ron dozing, the twins nowhere to be seen. Harry closed his eyes once again, ready to finally be at Hogwarts. Like seriously. This journey felt several months long lmao.


	5. Chapter 5: A Fated Fight

**A/N I'm back, folks. It's been a long road, getting from there to here, since my last entry. Admittedly, I kinda forgot about this. I was also very busy. But I remembered a couple weeks back, when I binge-read a bunch of Seinfeld fanfiction. In any case, I'm feeling kind of lovesick right now—conflicted about certain stuff, too. The short of it is that I am kind of involved with one individual, though we are kind of on pause, but we both still harbor pretty strong feelings for each other. The pause is because of distance. That individual had had a fairly recent bad experience with LDR. I think we're trying to meet at one point during the summer, maybe we'll be able to hash something out then. Drink of choice right now? It's a Corona left over from my sister's graduation party. Somebody might as well be drinking it. More stuff potentially to come? Also, tonight I was at a performance by the National Symphony Orchestra and it was good.**

 **A/N dis shit aint mine.**

 _Cyka Blyat,_ Harry thought to himself as he continued sitting in his compartment on the Hogwarts express, _this is the longest fucking train ride I've ever been on_. Dr. Spock (that's Hermione, remember that!) knocked on the door to the compartment, and Ron turned towards her. He may or may not have a ponytail?

"Oi, Harry, mate," Ron said, nudging Harry with an understated amount of strength, "who the bloody hell is this wench?"

"Ron, did you honestly just refer to her as a wench? What is this, 1750?" Harry paused for laughter. Upon realizing that none would come, he continued, "This, Ronald Bilius Weasely, is Hermione 'Dr. Spock' Granger. She's a muggleborn witch, who also has an anime profile picture on Facebook. I think I decided to call her Dr. Spock because she was kind of smart—right before I kicked my doppleganger Harry Crow in the dick and off the train."

Hermione coughed. I mean, Dr. Spock coughed, "Harry, I think you mean Harry Raven. Harry Crow is that shitty asshole character from that one HP Fanfiction."

"A mistake any inebriated author could have made," Ron interjected. "I'll have you know I love your muggle anime, too. I especially like… how do they call it… ah, yes: _ecchi_. My father studies muggle shit at the ministry of magic. We watched shows like Pokemon and Boku no Pico growing up."

Dr. Spock (Hermione) coughed again. She glanced toward Harry, who maintained a steady eye contact with her. She raised her eyebrow, as was characteristic of the actual Dr. Spock, and smirked. "Fascinating," she said. "In any case, I wanted to let you know you should put on your robes. I expect we'll be arriving soon."

Ron nodded and thanked Dr. Spock (Hermione) for the advice. He reached behind his head and gently placed his now-canonical ponytail over his shoulder and began combing it. Harry watched, intrigued. This was perhaps one of the most oddly sensual rituals Harry had observed. But before he could figure out his strange pre-pubescent feelings, the train arrived at Hogsmeade station. Ron threw his ponytail back over his shoulder, and the two boys disembarked from the train.

Harry searched the crowd high and low for Dr. Spock (Hermoine), but she seemed to have evaded him somehow. _Perhaps she was beamed up?_ Harry thought to himself, chuckling. Behind those Avada Kedavra coloured eyes, there sure was a devilish sense of humor. Harry reunited with Ron.

Then Hagrid was there. Ron was astonished at his immense girth. "OwO" Ron said, "what's this?" Actually, hold up. Is 'OwO' a thing that's said, or is it the facial expression? I've heard it both ways. Whatever. Hagrid put up his middle finger at Ron and called him a fucking prep.

"Firs' years, this way" Hagrid bellowed through his cyclopean lungs. Yes, they resembled ancient Mycenaean masonry. Fuck you. Hagrid led the wee little tykes, who somehow were all intelligent enough to carry on with political intrigue and adult conversation, to the lakeshore. Waiting for them there were a series of motorboats. Hagrid sighed, "We used ter have magical boats, but ye know, the magical budget ran shor'. Grea' man, Dumbledore, but even he can fall victim ter a Nigerian Prince scam."

 **A/N I've finished the Corona. Will the author get a second beverage? Stay tuned, for the next episode of Harry Potter and the inebriated auth—Hold the fuckin phone, jeez. While I was up getting a second drink, some asshole third-person narrator filled the role of narrating what I was doing. Idk, this is all kind of confusing. Like the void in a present author here necessitated an additional voice and the magic of the Harry Potter universe filled something in. Y'know, it's weird to think that the mere act of publishing this constitutes another addition to the fanon universe of Harry Potter. E Pluribus Unum or some shit. Also, the day I was binge-reading Seinfeld fanfiction, I also read Mary Poppins smutfic. Honestly, no kink shaming, but jeez louise. Bert insinuated his boxers were made of chalk in one of them, and I felt second hand pain on his behalf.**

Harry loved the feeling of the wind whipping across his hair as he zoomed across the Great Lake of Hogwarts. Not Michigan, not Superior, not Erie. Maybe one of those other ones, like Huron or Ontario. Why doesn't the Lake here have a name? Lake Hogwarts, even. Harry thought of all of this in the boat, not the Inebriated Author. But yeah, Harry was chillin in the boat with Ron, some chick who introduced herself as Daphne Greengrass (we get it, you smoke weed), and a self-insert named Bartleby. Unfortunately, when asked to talk about himself, Bartleby said, "I would prefer not to."

When they had made their way about halfway across Lake Hogwarts (Squid Lake? The Black Lake? Actually, shit, I think it is referred to as the Black Lake fairly often. Is that because of the color of the lake or some Sirius Black family legacy?), the motorboat started to shake. A grey, slimy hand grasped the side of the boat, and started to pull. Ron yelped, Daphne shrieked, and Bartleby just sort of stayed put and stared. Harry, on the other hand, was a man-child of action. He called for an adult, "Um, Hagrid? There's not supposed to be any sort of monster trying to get us down into the lake, right?"

"No, Harry," Hagrid responded, "Could be one of the merfolk, though they don' often like to meet firs'ies."  
"Then what the fuck is this?" Harry yelled.

"Ah, come on, Harry, this could be a chance to make a new friend!" Hagrid responded.

Harry rolled his eyes. Another hand, presumably belonging to the same body grabbed hold of the tiny vessel of a ship. This beast began to rock the ship even more. Ron started to cry. Daphne yelled out loud. Bartleby stared. And as soon as this attack started, it stopped. The water stilled itself again. All of the other motorboats had stopped, too, perhaps hoping to see some sort of carnage unfold. All was silent.

SHIIIIIIIIING—a figure flew out of the water and landed on the motorboat, brandishing a katana. Harry, the avid anime fan, would have been able to recognize the double-folded nippon steel anywhere. "NANI?" He exclaimed?

"It is I, Harry Potter, your arch nemesis. You may have defeated me once before, but now I assure you that your death is oncoming."

"Voldemort?" Harry asked, shuddering. Voldemort killed his parents, and tried to kill Harry but failed, giving Harry his gnarly scar on his forehead in the shape of that weird 'S' shape kids draw in elementary school.

"Ha, Voldemort? He is garbage compared to me. No, while he may have only been angry at your family, I have true vengeance on my side. You… shamed me today," the cloaked figure responded.

"Wait, what?" Harry responded, "I've barely done anything today, the only person I could think of is…" Harry cut himself off. "Oh, you've got to be fucking kidding me."

"Yes, it is I!"

"Ron, I'm sorry, but your weird self wasn't working out."

"Wait, what?" The figure choked. "It is I who must say nani the fuck now. Why ron?"

"Eh, he was some creepo I kicked out the window."

"No, _I_ am the creepo you kicked out the window," the figure retorted.

"Oh, fuck, lmao, is it Mr. Raven?"

"Yes, it is I, Lord Raven, Champion of all Goblinkind!"

I, the author, wish to reiterate the fact that all this shit was happening in front of the entire first-year class and Hagrid, who were all dead silent. Bartleby still stared.

"You, Harry Potter, besmirched my honor when you kicked me in the dick earlier today!"

"I could have sworn that was several months ago," Harry murmured.

"And now, I will have my revenge!" Raven yelled, as he charged forward towards Harry on the tiny motorboat. He charged like he had several dozen yards distance between them, and honestly it kind of seemed like that.

"Oh, I don't think so," said Harry. "Roadhouse!"

Then the song Chocolate Rain by Tay Zonday started playing and Harry roundhouse kicked Lord Raven so hard that he flew over the forbidden forest. Everybody cheered. And then they got to the school. And Perfesor McDonaldgall told them to wait before the sorting.

Harry overheard one kid say to another, "What do you mean you've never watched Seinfeld?"

And that was when the Inebriated Author decided to call it a night and watch some Seinfeld.


	6. Chapter 6: A Strange Sorting

**A/N Hi diddly ho, there, neighborinos. It's ya boi, the Inebriated Author, back again. I cancelled plans with friends tonight because I'm lazy. Really do not have the mental fortitude right now to be out until two o'clock in the AM. So I'll settle for home at 10:30 in the PM. My next door neighbors are having a party and it seems like the kind of parties I like to go to at uni. One was playin the sax, they're listening to chill jams, and just seem like they're having a low-key wholesome time. Little do they know the depravity that will be taking place here, in this particular chapter. I'm drinking Blue Moon, with an added dash of Angostura bitters. The bitters do nothing for the taste, but they justify my purchase. I don't have any hard alcohol to make cocktails with, so I guess I'll just keep adding them to beer. Also I won an award a couple weeks ago for my writing. Ironic that I keep excreting this garbage onto the HP fan fiction community. This is chapter 6, going in.**

Disclaimer: Fuck you.

When we last left off, Harry was in the antechamber with the other first years before the sorting. Some little jackass wasn't into Seinfeld—the bastard. The temporality of this particular writing is kind of off the beaten path. It's 1991, but there's also iPods and facebook. Deal with it, friendo. It's completely fine for there to be a Seinfeld reference. I wonder what it would be like to still have Seinfeld on television. Some of my earliest memories involve me watching Seinfeld with my parents. Of course, I called it 'Sign field' at the time, and I also drooled a lot more than I do now. I digress.

These wee little tykes were standing in the ante-chamber. They were shaking, nervous, idk. Some blond-haired ponce came up to Harry, like he does in every single other iteration of this goddamn series, and offered his hand out. He told him in a nasally, pedantic, elitist voice "It's true then, what they said on the train. Harry Potter has come to Hogwarts. You should not be friends with a poor person. It does not fit your caste. I can help you there. My name is Malfoy. Draco Malfoy. I like my butterbeer shaken, not stirred."

Ronald Bilius Weasley, the ranga, scoffed, "that'll make your butterbeer explode, you inbred twat."

Harry said, "I think I can figure out the wrong sort for myself, thank you very much."

Malfoy farded really loud and was embarrassed and went back in line. Then Professor. McDonaldagall came back out and said shrewdly and sternly and shrilly, "All first years, follow me. The sorting process shall begin." She quickly tap-danced, as if following a magic pattern, and the big-ass wooden doors behind her started to open.

When Harry stepped into the Great Hall, he was taken aback. It wasn't that great. Sure, it was pretty fuckin cool. But like, there were no TVs. How the hell was he supposed to watch the game? He looked up towards the ceiling, enchanted to look like the night sky as Dr. Spock (IT'S HERMIONE, DON'T FORGET) pointed out. As he walked towards the front of the room, he saw eyes upon him. Some asshole spilled a jar of newt eyes on him. What a douche. Harry picked up one of the eyes and drop kicked it across the Pretty Decent Hall. Everyone clapped.

Harry turned back toward the front of the Hall, and noticed an older fellow evaluating him. This guy looked kinda like Alan Rickman, believe it or not. The two briefly made eye contact, and Harry felt as if his every thought was being gently caressed. He had to bite his tongue to stop from—NOPE not this kinda story. Sorry. Got carried away. Harry turned away from the old creep, and noticed a hat on a chair. It wasn't even a snapback. Bartleby stared at it. Ron Weasley smirked at it, like fuckin Rupert Grint did in the movies. Ugh. You know what I'm talking about, right? Erk. Dr. Spock raised an eyebrow characteristic of her namesake. Malfoy kept farding and shidding his pants hahahah nerd.

Sorry, I'm getting carried away. McDonaldagall said, "Put on this fuckin hat, losers, and it'll tell ya where to go. First to go is… HARRY POTTER!"

Everyone gasped. Harry rolled his eyes. Of course they'd fuckin subvert the order of the alphabet for him to go first. Harry jogged forward, turned to face the students, flipped them all the middle finger, and sat on the stool. He grabbed the hat and put it on his eleven-year-old head. It fell down over his emerald orbs.

"Well, well, well," said the Hat. Its voice rang aloud, though nobody seemed to be reacting. Harry deduced that this was all taking place within his mind. "Well, well, well," the Hat continued. This was a deciding hat, of sorts. A Sorting Hat, if you would. "WELL, Well, well," the Hat said once again.

"What, dude, let's get on with it," Harry said.

"Well, I never," the Hat scoffed. "Nah, just bustin' your balls, Harry, old chap, my boy. I'm not the ordinary sort of Hat you may encounter. I can read your mind."

"Oh, yeah? Well read this!" Harry said, mentally picturing a giant middle finger.

"You're a feisty one," the Hat chuckled, "and I know that you have the potential to do a lot of great things. Great _Inebriated_ things."

"But isn't the author the one who is inebriated?" Harry asked.

"Oh, you're right indeed, Mr. Potter, but soon you, too, will drink decent beer and shitpost online, too," the Hat whispered, "You, too, will create the unnecessary and the unwanted."

Um, guys, you know I'm right here writing this and hearing it, too?

"Sorry, sorry," the Hat apologized. "Now, where were we? Oh yeah, this school thinks its appropriate to group people by personality type. I think it's dumb. But whatever, just following orders."

Captain Jean-Luc Picard of the Federation Starship Enterprise popped up in Harry's mind's eye and said, "No, they can't. However, the claim 'I was only following orders' has been used to justify too many tragedies in our history. Starfleet doesn't want officers who will blindly follow orders without analyzing the situation. Your actions were appropriate for the circumstances. And I have noted that in your record." He faded away very quickly. Y'know, I think this is ACTUALLY chronologically appropriate. This episode, Redemption II, came out in 1991. Wait fuck, nvm. This second part of the episode came out on September 23, 1991. Well, in any case, none of this other shit is temporal.

"What the Picard said," Harry said.

"Oh, fuck, you're right, young Mr. Potter. For too long I've been complacent and complicit. From now on, I'll sort everybody into… uhhh…." the Hat paused.

"It's ok, we can figure this out later. We just need to get to the plot point the Inebriated Author had in mind. At this point, this talk of revolution is just foreshadowing and unnecessary." Harry responded.

"Well, then, in that case… Better be… Oh wait, forgot to say, you remind me of Voldemort—no, not Moldyshorts—and you'd be good in Slytherin. In any case, that ain't happening. Better be… SEINFELD!"

The room fell silent. Nobody had ever been sorted to Seinfeld House. Sure, the infrastructure existed for some fucking reason, but nobody had ever made it. People wondered why it was founded in the first place. The founder, the secret fifth member that everybody chose to ignore when discussing the Founders, was shrouded in mystery. Maybe some sort of bootstrap paradox could help solve this conundrum?

In any case, Harry walked over to his table, which was a replica of the booth from Monks cafe, that he had seen on television when his Aunt and Uncle were not looking. He sat alone at the table. Harry was just like, wtf. Bartleby stared.

Harry turned up towards the ceiling and started muttering. To the others in the place, it looked like he was praying or otherwise going insane. Actually, the dude was talking to me. Let me stop typing so we can hear him.

"Mr. Inebriated Author, sir, what's going on?"

 **Weeelllll, I was really into the idea of a Seinfeld and Harry Potter crossover. You can see that in my other works. But all I did was copy and paste the** ** _actual_** **Harry Potter series and just replace your name with Jerry Seinfeld.**

"That's fuckin hilarious, man, good on you. But I also respect your desire to create something more original and organic."

 **Thanks, Harry.**

There was a pause.

"What's gonna happen now?"

 **Well, you're gonna be alone in your house, and thank god. It's a replica of Jerry's apartment from the TV show, and there just isn't the room to house a bunch of new people. But you'll have people popping in and out, just like on the show.**

"Will I have a Newman?"

 **We'll see, young Harry we'll see.**

Harry faced back towards the teacher table, just as the sorting finished up. Ron Weasley was sent to Gryffindor, and gave Harry a look that exuded a "What's the deal with that" sort of vibe. Albus Dumbledore said "Nitwit. Oddment. Blubber. Tweak." Or however it goes.

And food appeared out of thin air! All of the tables had really sweet shit. All Harry had was cereal (honestly, who orders cereal at a restaurant) and a big salad. He would have killed for the Big Mac Professor McDonaldagall was eating. As Harry was working on his cereal, he heard a yelp from the table next to him. A silvery head had popped its way up through the table! It was a g-g-g-g-g-ghost!

The same started happening at other tables around the Great Hall. And all of a sudden, the same happened to Harry! It was some woman named Susan—who hadn't died on the show yet, but time is a capitalist construct anyway, so who gives a shit.

Then Harry touched his goblet, filled to the brim with ovaltine, and was transported to a graveyard! It was apparently a Portkey! Some dude named wormtail was there with a manbaby (surprisingly not Lord Raven) and tried to cut him up. Harry kicked him in the dick and hopped right back to Hogwarts.

 **A/N Sorry, had to get the MANDATORY GRAVEYARD SCENE out of the way. This is how you know shits gonna be unconventional. THIS AIN'T YOUR MOMMA'S HARRY POTTER FANFICTION.**


	7. Chapter 7: An Important Interlude

A/N:

Uhhh fellas… I've made a grave mistake… I've gone through most of the summer since June without posting an update. Blame gainful employment. In any case, I'm here now, to rectify my second biggest sin. I'm gonna expand a bit more on the necessary graveyard scene—there's some necessary foreshadowing that will happen.

Disclaimer: fuck you

Harry had just sat down alone at his table in Seinfeld house. It astounded him that this booth had existed for the past 1000 years without anybody either occupying it or seeing a need to remove it. Of course, if anybody were to be sorted into Seinfeld house, it would be the Boy-Who-Lived.

Harry turned inward, like metaphorically, and said to the reader, "Hey, be sure to read these authors notes. They're an intricate part of this meticulously crafted plot. They're not like the kinda shit other people do."

A very blurry image of a man he would come to know as Eric Andre popped into his mind—he was a seer after all—and whispered, "this ain't your momma's monologue."

Harry continued, unshaken by his premonition of things to come, "so now that I have you captivated already, I'll do some talking for the author. He went to a bar tonight with some buddies. Has he made it clear he's a dude? Eh, who gives a hooting fuck (sorry, Hedwig). There was a live band there playing working class bluegrass. He had a couple of brewskis and went on a nighttime bicycle ride. It was very relaxing. He saw his girlfriend last week and it was wonderful. Almost as magical as this literary universe. There, author, are you happy?"

 **Yes, quite.**

Harry snorted impatiently, "can we continue with my bit now?"

 **My, you are quite the impatient one.**

"Yes," Harry replied, "hence the snorting described as such." A ghost farted on the snooty scar-headed boy—"HEY!"—and on his newly appeared dinner for good measure. Can ghosts fart? Idk, let me check Pottermore. Brb. Ok, unsurprisingly, there's nothing there about that. And I'm not too keen to read into the lore of HPFanFetishFiction. Let's just say this is a one-off. Wait, is Harry eating cereal? I can't remember. I'm pretty certain I said he was. If not, then he's eating cereal.

Harry looked up from his delectable bowl of cerealy goodness and noticed quite a few people were staring at him. He was somewhat more used to this now, having spent a little bit of time in the wizarding world since he was first introduced. People often tended to stare, especially at his scar, given to him by Lord Voldemort the same night his parents were murdered. Harry liked to wiggle his forehead and make the scar dance. Others were somewhat less amused by this.

Alas, not tonight. Harry figured the staring was related to his strange Sorting, and his conversations with himself—not everyone was privy to his close relationship to the immaculate Inebriated Author. His conversations seemed like the ravings of a lunatic. But doesn't the truth, after all, sound like madness to the ignorant? Plato's Cave, my friends, Plato's Cave. Gosh that sounds so pedantic.

"It really is," Harry muttered under his breath, forgetting that I'm reading his words here, whether or not they're spoken loudly or quietly.

 _Prick_ , Harry thought to himself. Still here, buddy.

"This gimmick is getting a bit old," Harry said.

 **You have a point. But my favorite type of horse is a beaten dead one. In any case, let's progress the story a little. While my fingers still carry some strength.**

"Yes, let's."

Harry pulled his iPhone out of his pockets and plugged in his headphones. He was beginning to get sick of the whispers around him, and decided to drown them out with good angsty music. He landed on Flagpole Sitta by Harvey Danger, his seer senses somehow knowing that this particular song would be the title theme of a cult British humor show:

 _Paranoia, paranoia_

 _Everybody's comin' to get me_

 _Jast say you never met me_

 _I'm runnin' underground with the moles_

 _Diggin' holes_

 _Hear the voices in my head_

 _I swear to God it sounds like they're snoring_

 _But if your'e bored then you're boring_

 _The agony and the irony, they're killing me, whoa_

 _I'm not sick but I'm not well_

 _And I'm so hot 'cause I'm in hell_

 _I'm not sick but I'm not well_

 _And it's a sin to live so well_

How ironically on the nose. While Harry had been fiddling with his iPhone, a rat had slipped out of his fanny pack which had been charmed to be the size of a cupboard. This was a peculiar rat with a pissing maw. I mean, missing paw. Or like a toe on it. Look, it's Wormtail. You know. In any case, Wormtail swapped Harry's spoon for another charmed one that happened to be a Portkey. Harry grabbed it to finish off his yummy, healthy, part-of-a-complete-breakfast bowl of cereal, and felt a strange pull behind his navel.

His eyes were suddenly awash with bright colors and he felt the strangest spinning sensation. And just as quickly as this had all happened, it stopped. Harry crumpled to the ground, breathing hard. His head was pounding, his scar was prickly, his body was trembling. Knees weak, arms are heavy, there's vomit on his sweater already, Aunt Petunia's spaghetti.

Harry soon recuperated and pulled himself up off the ground. He was in a graveyard, next to the tombstone of one Thomas Riddle. Now, riddle me this, young Harry. What will happen next?

~~ BRIEF INTERLUDE ~~

So, wizard chess. Why don't they just call it chess? It's the same game, they just tell the pieces to make moves and it's a bit more animated. It's like comparing a modern video game to one from 30 years ago. Are we playing wizards video games? If they have voice commands and good graphics and immersive gameplay? I don't think so. Is it the magic involved? Can't be—it doesn't fundamentally change the game.

There should be wizard's backgammon, wizard's checkers, wizard's stratego! Where it's the same fucking game but you just make it slightly more convoluted without changing any of the actual game! Harry's going to get himself a Wizard's Xbox 360 and play some Wizard's Call of Duty: Modern Warfare 2. He's going to plug in his wizard's headphones into his wizard's iPhone and listen to some wizard's Eminem. I swear, I'm tempted to have these kids have a gaming clan or something and insist it's canon-fine because of the 'wizard' prefix. And I know there's that whole canon thing where magic prevents muggle shit from working. But this is AU.

Now did I just insist on justifying shit within canon while also saying that this is AU? Yes. Deal with it, bucko. Now, I'm going to finish this Wizard's beer and get myself another.

~~END INTERLUDE~~

Um, so Cedric isn't here this time around. Only Harry, m'boy.

"Yo, author-man, what's going on? Where am I?"

 **Yeah, about that. You're going to be used in a resurrection ritual to revive Lord Voldemort.**

"What the fuck, man?! Why would you do this to me?" Harry yelled, futilely.

 **Because I have to. It's HPFanfiction law. It's like if I didn't stop at a red light and scream into the void.**

"That makes no sense. You have the power here."

 **Nothing I can do, m'boy.**

"Oh, so now you're a Dumbledore?"

 **No, I'm just slightly tipsy.**

"Right. Of course. Well, while you're making a mess of yourself, O Holy Inebriated Author, I'm going to find a way out of this." Harry declared.

 **Go check behind Tom Riddle's tombstone.**

"Thank you," Harry sighed. He tread silently towards the foreboding stone monolith and peeked around. Some strange demonic baby was there, alongside a portly, balding man. This is Wormtail. Figure out yourself how he got here. The ugly fucker quickly pulled out a wand and bound Harry with wizard's ropes.

"Fuck you, Author," Harry growled.

 **Advancing the narrative, Harry, m'boy.**

This Wormtail fucker, whose name Harry only knew because he was a seer, drew some blood from Harry's arm with the help of a professionally trained nurse. She made sure to sterilize the drawing area, and checked the whole time to make sure Harry was fine. It was oddly humane considering the whole kidnapping thing. Harry resolved to leave her a good review on yelp. She finished and quickly left.

"Oi, Wormtail," Harry said, "why exactly are you doing this—and why now of all times? The entirety of Hogwarts saw the kidnapping."

"Hmmm, Harry. YOu're a wily one. You take after your mother, Lily. You have her eyes. In your looks you're like your father James. I was never the popular one. I was stout as a child, too. My mother was ill. Other excuses for being a dick," Pettigrew rambled, his last statement a placeholder.

"Pardon me?" Harry asked.

"The timing is of the utmost importance. This time was chosen to stop you from causing irreparable damage to Hogwarts. You see, if you had been left without any interference, you would have formed a… study group!"

"I would do no such thing!" Harry yelled, offended.

"Ah, well the laws of HPFanFiction would disagree with you. You and your fuckign friends always seem to form some sort of study group and assign projects to each other, like you're 40-year-old office workers who whack off over synergy. It's fucking annoying. Stop it."

"Well, THIS AIN'T YOUR MAMA'S FANFICTION," Harry yelled, echoing future Eric Andre.

"No, I can see that. Perhaps we needn't have commenced this ritual." _Ding ding_ , a microwave sounded. "Ah, too late. He's already completed." Peter Pettigrew reached opened a microwave that was at the base of Riddle's tombstone, and pulled out what looked like a hot pocket. He bit into it and moaned with satisfaction. "Now to complete the other ritual." Pettigrew bent over and exposed his asscrack like a plumber or a guy at a Yu-Gi-Oh competition. He poured baking soda and vinegar together and then Lord Voldemort completed his return.

He looked kinda snake-like—a true Taylor Swift.

 **Hey, guys. It's your author here. There are some discrepancies between the last chapter and this one regarding what happened. They are intentional. Deal with it. Resuming normal stuff.**

Harry appeared annoyed. He could not see Voldemort for what he truly was while the author rambled. In any case, the author had stopped, and he could continue checking out Voldy's sweet sweet bod. Voldy looked snakelike with pale skin and eyes as red as a Four Loko. He had a nose that appeared like a botched rhinoplasty. He was kind of skeletal looking. And he was wearing a T-Shirt with a picture of Steve Urquel's face on it. Oh, yeah, temporality.

"Harry Potter. Finally. I have waited ten years to repeat this moment. I shall kill you and prevent you from forming a study group," Voldemort said aloud, but also kind of whispered, in a very ASMR way.

"Bruh, I don't actually want to form a study group—at least until I'm like 13 and somewhat more responsible. I want to play wizard video games and eat tide pods," Harry responded coolly. "Only a narc would do this kinda shit at 11."

"Could I have miscalculated?" Voldemort muttered to himself. "No, impossible. I must end the boy. Only then can I restore myself to glory. Instead of just killing him while he's tied up, I should give him a fighting chance. Yes, that will prove my total cruelty. Speaking of which, I should use the torture spell on my minion for doing a job well done." Voldemort turned towards Wormtail, who had heard everything and was crying in anticipation. _Your Teenage Years Were Spent in Vain_ , he said, and Pettigrew collapsed to the ground, under the effect of the Cruciatus.

"Truly biting commentary from the author," Harry mumbled.

"What was that?" Voldemort asked, so surprised that he prematurely lifted the curse from Wormtail.

"The author. His idea of torture was the idea that he spent his teenage years looking at shitty memes was a waste of time and contributed to his poor mature formation," Harry responded like a know-it-all.

"You… speak to the Author?" Voldemort asked. "Perhaps this was my folly. This is the power I know not… the power to channel the Holy Inebriated… I must put an end to this. The one with the power to speak to the Inebriated Author is… SUPREME." (I couldn't think of a better word)

Harry rolled his eyes. "Untie me, then, and we can fight. Like you wanted."

"Yes, yes," Voldemort said. He flicked his wand and Harry's binding came undone. "We shall have a wizard duel!"

Harry's face paled. He went kinda fish-eyed, too. I'm doing the face right now but it's hard to convey. Think Jon Krasinski in the Office. "Um, author, I don't actually know any magic. It's still my first fucking day of wizard school."

 **See, wizard school works there because you're actually learning wizard stuff, not just adding more convolution to something without ultimately changing it.**

"YO, FUCKFACE, HELP ME OUT HERE," Harry yelled.

 **Sorry, sorry. Um, remember how last chapter ended. That's all I'll say.**

"Oh, true, hahaha," Harry chuckled. He quickly ran up to Voldemort and kicked him in the dick. Voldemort howled like a wolf longing to bone the moon. Harry picked up his strangely delicate body and drop kicked him like a mile. Then he kicked Pettigrew in the balls for good measure. He found the spoon, grabbed onto it, and teleported back to Hogwarts.

"Ah, welcome back, Harry m'boy," Dumbledore said. What a twat.

"I was gone, with Voldemort, and you all kept fucking eating?" Harry yelled.

"Shit's tasty, dude," Professor McDonalds said.

"This is quite illogical," Dr. Spock (Hermione) said.

"Wicked, bloody hell," Ron said.

The twins both said something and finished each others sentences but I can't be assed to write it right now.

Bartleby stared.

Malfoy shidded and farded again.

"This is gonna be a hell of a year," Harry muttered to himself as he returned to his cereal.

 **A/N Next chapter comes the next time I feel like it, ya wankers.**


	8. Chapter 8: A Delightful Dormitory

**A/N I am writing this a day after the previous chapter was written and published. Editing? I don't know the meaning of that wrod! Currently sipping a makeshift Aperol Spritz. Ah, the sweet refined taste of northern italy, made even finer by cheap ingredients. And I had a beer, too. Sorry, wizard's beer. And wizard's Aperol Spritz. I forget myself, sometimes. Forgive a mere inebriated muggle.**

Harry was at a loss. After that evening's meal, everybody other first year was directed to their dormitories by their respective Prefects. Harry did not have that luck. He resorted to following Susan the ghost to the fifth floor of the Western Tower. She reluctantly led him and warned him of the dangers of envelope glue. Harry rolled his eyes.

After about ten minutes, they came upon a hallway that seemed quite out of place in a gothic castle. Rather, it seemed more fitting of an apartment building hallway on the Upper West Side of New York City, like the one Jerry Seinfeld lived in throughout the hit television series, _Seinfeld_. Fancy that. Only fitting that Harry was sorted into Seinfeld house. Susan led him up to the door marked '5A.'

"Heya, Susan, thank you for the help!" Harry beamed.

"Of course, Harry. Now remember, avoid Envelope Glue, especially if you're about to get married to one George Costanza," Susan replied. She turned away from Harry and floated off through a wall.

Harry stood in front of the door to his dormitory and fiddled with the doorknob. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn't get the damned thing open.

"I invoke thy name, O Inebriated Author," Harry chanted.

 ***buuuuurp* Whaddya want, Harry?**

 **"** How do I get into my dormitory?" Harry asked.

 **Well, you've gotta do the thing.**

"What thing?"

 **Y'know, the thing. The… uh… thing whatsis face did.**

"Author, I know you're kind of playing up your inebriation and lack of knowledge about the hit 1990s television show, _Seinfeld_. Can you just tell me? I'm feeling like what's-his-name felt when he finished the _Mona Lisa_ — knackered."

 **You really don't care for dramatic tension.**

"Nope."

 **Well, then. All you have to do is try to emulate Kramer whenever he enters Jerry's apartment. You have to sort of open the door and slide at the same time. Maybe now and then shout a non-sequitur.**

"You better not be fucking with me," Harry said.

 **Nope.**

Harry positioned himself in front of the entrance to his dormitory. He gently closed his eyes, inhaled, and exhaled. He reached out to grab the doorknob. "Here goes nothing," Harry said. He slid forward and found the door had suddenly given way. He slid underneath the frame and found himself in a 1:1 replica of Jerry Seinfeld's apartment on the award-winning television show, _Seinfeld_. From the bowels of the dormitory came an unearthly cheer. "Um, Author, what was that?"

 **You know how they cheer when Kramer enters? Same thing happens for you. Except in this case, I think the applause, laughter, and cheering was stolen from souls over 1000 years ago.**

"That's slightly morbid."

 **Indeed. Now, run off to bed. You have a busy day tomorrow!**

Harry acquiesced to my holy, inebriated demands and scurried off to bed. He was relived to find his belongings had been brought to his room and unpacked. He was doubly pleased to see that he had a Queen-sized bed all to himself. He crawled in, made himself comfortable, and dozed off almost immediately.

* * *

 **A/N** Hey, HPFanfiction Community. I have a question for you. When does something stray too far from being canon compliant? When is something AU rather than an interesting spin on something?

I'm trying to figure out a path for this story to get to the endgame, and boy will both the rising action and the climax be shitty. There are several different vehicles towards getting there, and I'm not certain which y'all would prefer. Y'all being my two readers. One of whom I'm convinced is just me when I read this drivel at work. You know what. No. Fuck the audience. I'm making this high art for myself. I'll blame myself for the disappointment that ensues, and not the audience.

On that note, would it be weird if Quirrell was still here? Like, Voldy already kinda was resurrected, so it's kind of pointless for Quirrell to be here, too. But… canon is a social construct. As the great Leonard Nimoy once preached, "Canon is only important to certain people because they have to cling to their knowledge of the minutiae… Open your mind! Be a 'Star Trek' fan and open your mind and say, 'Where does Star Trek want to take me now.'" Obviously, this instance is the canon-realm of HPFanFiction. Also Star Trek: Discovery is canon and haters are assholes. But the ultimate point is, I don't care what you have to say.

* * *

Harry's first morning was… mediocre. He donned a pair of jeans, a button-down T-Shirt, and white sneakers—which had apparently replaced all of the robes he had purchased for school. It was as if the magic of the school was trying to make him into Jerry Seinfeld. Fancy that.

When Harry first walked into the Mediocre Hall, he noticed everybody staring at him. Probably because he looked like the cover of a Normcore magazine. He meandered through the crowd of h8rs and sat down at his little booth in the corner. He made himself a bowl of cereal and started to chow down.

Across the Large Cafeteria, Ronald Bilius Weasley popped up out of his seat. He did that weird Mario jump—the one with three phases and he goes ha, ya, whoopee, and flips on the whoopee—towards Harry, and joined him at his table. "How was your night, mate?" Ron asked of Harry.

"I had a dream last night that a hamburger was eating me!" Harry exclaimed.

"Wicked," Ronald replied.

"Quite. How was your night?" Harry asked.

"Well, it was a wee bit odd. Apparently one of the older years decided it would be a funny prank to smush all of our fourposter beds into one large bed—and they transfigured them all into one. Problem is, they couldn't get it back. So I was cuddled with Seamus, Neville, Dean, and whoever the fuck else is in our year. Was Bartleby? No, I think he's probably a Huff."

"Haha, stupid fucking Hufflepuff," Harry agreed.

"In any case, bruv, what have you got first thing this morning?" Ron inquired.

"Well, since I'm the only member of my house, I'm tagging along to various classes with other houses." Harry pulled a sheet our of the back pocket of his jeans. "According to this schedule, I have Sex-Ed with Professor Newman."

"Bloody Hell mate," Ron said, sweeping his possibly existent ponytail back across his shoulder sensually, "that's with us Griffs! We are bold and brash and brave and trash!"

The bell rang.

"Well, seems like we should be going off, then," Harry said.

"Indubitably, my good comrade," Ron responded. And the two walked off to the classroom, which was located in the dungeons for some strange reason.

* * *

"Sex-Education is easy enough to understand. Each team has seven players. Three Chasers, two beaters, one Keeper and the seeker, that's you. Everybody follow?" The class stared at Professor Newman in complete silence. "There are three kinds of balls—" the man was interrupted by a sharp cough.

"Yes, thank you very much, Professor Newman. Do recall that this is Sex-Ed and not Quidditch. Your comment about the three kinds of balls carries a bit more weight here, m'boy," Professor Dumbledore interjected.

"Ah, of course. My sincerest apologies, Albus and students." Dumbledore disappeared as suddenly as he had appeared. Newman continued, "So this class exists for several reasons, the most important to dispel some notions about our society. We live in a society, where gamers are put in the friendzone by girls." No student moved or reacted. "My apologies once again, that was my lesson for our Wizard Gaming class." Professor Newman shuffled through some cards he had on a rolodex. He continued, "Here we go, now. This Sex-Ed class serves to instruct you about our society and love. Now, you all are too young for love, plain and simple. Hell, I'm a 40-year-old man, and I've never felt the tender touch of another human being. Do you follow me, students?"

"Yes, Professor Newman," the class responded in an eerie unison.

"Wonderful, wonderful. I'm here to bring truth to some lies about magical love. But first, I like to start my classes with a bit of a cold-call quiz, a la Professor Snape. Tell me… Mr. Potter. What do I get if I mix cannabis and alcohol?"

Harry flushed. He had not been anticipating being called on, but he should have grown to expect it. "Well, Professor," Harry started, "I reckon a nasty hangover."

Professor Newman's eyes gleamed and he giggled, "Whoop-dee-fucking-doo, 30 points to … Seinfeld … house!"

Harry noticed something odd about this Professor Newman—beyond his uncanny resemblance to Wayne Knight, who portrayed Newman on the stunning, spectacular, superlative 1990s television show, _Seinfeld_. He seemed to growl the name 'Seinfeld,' and his perfectly normal eyes glowed with an unearthly, undead anger when he uttered the word. That was probably nothing.

"Once, again, Mr. Potter, since you are our Protagonist." Newman paused for a moment, thinking of a stunner, "Tell, me, Harry, What's the deal with airplane food?"

Harry was at a loss. "I, I don't know, sir," he stammered.

"Pity. Clearly being the first person sorted into … Seinfeld … house in a millenium isn't everything—is it, Mr. Potter?"

"Uh, I guess not?" Harry replied. While Professor Newman went on haranguing the others in his class, Harry pulled a pen (Not a fucking quill) and a notebook (not parchment, bitch) out of his Fjallraven backpack. He quickly scribbled down, _Yo, Author, what's this guy's deal?_

 **Eh, idk. He might be significant, he might not be. I just wanted to use him to make some things clear to you.**

 _Like what?_ Harry wrote.

 **Pay attention and you might hear.**

"…So that's why we're here. There are several misconceptions people have about the way we do stuff here. First and foremost, no harems! Yes, that means you, Mr. Protagonist. They've been outlawed since the year 1569, when the Dark Lord Jeff 69'ed half the population of Transnistria to death."

"That is quite morbid," said Dr. Spock (guys, it's Hermione. DOn't forget!).

"Indeed. Also, I want to tell you soul bonds are a load of shit, and people who claim they're a real thing are just trying to get with you. All that stuff about glowing when you're near someone? Very simple transfiguration and charmwork, in fact, I think you could effectively do it with a first-year curriculum." Ron frowned at that. "Oh, also if you believe in Magical Cores, you may as well believe in a flat earth. Fuck you, dumbass." Newman paused. He moved his eyes over the whole class of impressionable young firsties. "I think that about covers it!" He said.

Dr. Spock (HERMIONEEEE) raised her hand, "Um, sir? Shouldn't we cover Wizarding contraception?"

"What the fuck, it's the same as muggle one. Just bag it before you shag it. There's no need to make it more convoluted with magic," Professor Newman crassly replied. Dr. Spock raised her eyebrow. "Now, if there are no further questions," Newman continued, "I think I'll let you out a bit early."

There was a happy murmur as all of the first-year students packed their bags up only ten minutes into their 2 hour class session. Harry spotted Ron making his way across the classroom to speak to him.

"Oi, Harry," Ron said, "fancy a game of Quidditch?"

"Nah, mate. I'm keen on playing some Wizarding Xbox. Care to join at my place?" Harry replied.

"Ye, safe, m8." Ron said.

And they went back to Harry's dormitory and played Wizarding Xbox. It was fun.

 **A/N** Join us next time, when some more stuff probably happens.


	9. Chapter 9: A Mirrored Madam

**A/N Hey, Alexa, play "The Boys Are Back In Town"**

 **There, that's better. What is up, it's ya boi, the Inebriated Author, back atcha with a new riveting tale of inebriation. I drank a little bit tonight, maybe three or four drinks, and spewed major chunks. No, this wasn't an alcohol incident. Turns out I have a stomach bug! I know this for certain—when I drank water I puked, and on my walk home from my friend's apartment I puked. I don't like to brag, but four drinks is not something I tend to call home over. Kids reading this, practice safe drinking. Drink a glass of water for every standard drink you consume. Adults reading this, I'm not a wimp! I promise! But yeah, some of those drinks kicked in enough, and I feel the muse tonight. Currently eating some chips to stave off further vomit. We'll see how that goes. Oh! Do you hear that? Harry's ready to emerge!**

Harry's first several weeks at Hogwarts were peculiar, to put it simply. **(A/N, oh also, Alexa pause!).** Magic was not as easy to understand as Harry had previously thought—it wasn't as simple as waving a wand, forgive the pun. McDonaldagall's Transfiguration class was as confusing as the plot of Melville's _Bartleby The Scrivener_ , Snape's Potions were as dour as something really dour, and Newman's Wizarding Sex-Ed felt somewhat forced and a little creepy. Granted, Harry had more important things to worry about than his professors—namely that the Dark Wizard Voldemort had been resurrected and was likely hellbent on murdering him for his connection the Inebriated Author, aka me.

Harry solidified his friendships with his peers over that time. With Dr. Spock (guys, it's Hermione), he wrote inter-generational _Star Trek_ fanfiction. With Ron, he no-scoped wizard losers in wizard Call of Duty. With Bartleby, he avoided doing any work. And with the others—and I assure you, there are others—he did their thing, too.

Life felt kind of lonely in Seinfeld house. Everybody else seemed to share a sense of camaraderie with their housemates over their houses. The only person he could ever really talk to was dead—the ghost Susan. She wasn't quite the conversation partner Harry desired. All she would discuss with Harry was her untimely demise at the hands of a toxic envelope— _Oh, if only she'd had a bezoar,_ she frequently moaned. No, what Harry needed was the George to his Jerry. The close friend with whom many questioned romantic involvement. Ron was nice, but he wasn't… enough for Harry. Nobody would ever wonder if they were dating.

It was with that mindset, the desire for a closer than close friend, that Harry decided to stop by the library for a visit. If he could not find that closer than close friend at Hogwarts, then he would conjure one himself. In the library, he spotted Dr. Spock doing her homework. Harry approached her quietly and whispered, "Oi, Spork, how do I find a book?"

Spock responded, "Ask Madam Pince."

"And if this book may be slightly incriminating?"

"Ah, yes," Spock said, "perhaps you may wish to turn to her evil doppelgänger, Madam Pince with a beard."

"Thanks, Doc Spock, you're the best!" Harry said, turning away to find Mirror Pince. She was not hard to find. Whereas most librarians try to keep the peace, Mirror Universe librarians tend to sow chaos in their literary domains. Harry followed the screams of anguish further down the hallway and very quickly found Mirror Pince slapping a student across the face with a copy of _Why Chess Should Be Called Wizard's Chess_ by Gellert Grindelward.

 **Huh. That asinine name is a remnant of a time of divisive conflict in the wizard world. Kind of grim, no? I'm talking to myself. Also these are really good chips. Celebrity is as celebrity does.**

Harry approached her, "Excuse me, Madam Pince?" She did not relent in her senseless beating. "Madam Pince?" She continued walloping the crying sixth year. "Oi, you old bag, I'm trying to talk to you!"

Mirror Pince finally turned around, acknowledging Harry, "Ah, yes, hello young Harry Potter. I hadn't heard you, my apologies. How can I help you?"

Harry, figuring he needed to be brusque in his dealings with Mirror Pince, said "I need a book on demonic conjurations."

"Whatever would you need that for?" She asked.

"Demonic conjurations," Harry said, and added, "bitch."

"How polite, young Harry!" Mirror Pince said. "Very well, I shall summon a text for you." She snapped her fingers, and the crying sixth year suddenly transfigured into a container of protein powder. "Whoops, wrong preset," she murmured to herself. She fiddled with a knob on her watch and snapped her fingers again. This time, a book zoomed toward her open, outstretched hand, _Demonic Conjurations for Beginners_ , by Gellert Grindelwald. She handed the text over to our young protagonist.

"Gee, thanks for nothing you old sack of flesh and bones!" Harry exclaimed.

"Any time, dear boy," Mirror Pince replied.

Harry scurried off to his room eager to summon a new best friend.

Sprawled out on his bed in the Seinfeld dormitory, Harry cracked open the book. _Strange,_ Harry thought, _there are only several sentences in the whole text. The rest is just pictures of dicks._ Harry shrugged and looked at the instructions:

 _Greetings, yon magicked magician. To summon thine very owne demonyc companion, thou must utter ye following frase:_ What's the deal with demonic conjurations? _And then thou must follow the options that pop up. It's like a phone tree. Though thoust living before the mid-1900s shan't know what that is. Indeed, the phone bank is a foe most perilous, for example…_

The following words trailed off into the shape of a dick. All Harry needed to do was say the incantation, and the magic would take over from there. Harry braced himself, then said, "What's the deal with demonic conjurations?" And a demon popped up. "This is really too easy," Harry muttered to himself.

"Well, heya, pal!" The demon said, "Thanks for calling! What can I do ya for today!" This particular demon was wearing a cowboy hat, and sounded as if it came from the southern region of the United States of America. The thought that it probably voted for Trump uncomfortably hung in the back of Harry's mind throughout the conversation.

"Well, hello, demon," Harry responded, "I'm in need of your services. Though please don't deny me my services like those bakers in Indiana."

The demon's eyes narrowed slightly and he cracked his knuckles, "whatever do you mean?"

"Never mind. In any case, I find myself in need of a friend."

The demon's visage brightened, "Oh, _that_ I can help ya with, pardner. Not your liberal bullshit." His face darkened temporarily, then he smiled and laughed again, "just tell me what you want."

"I need my own George Costanza," Harry said.

The devil's face paled. "I'm not sure you want that, Harry."

"I need him," Harry said.

"It's your funeral," the demon said, "so mote it be."

"Again with that fucking phrase," Harry said, as the devil popped away. And all of a sudden, the intercom buzzed. Somebody was at the door! Harry sprung out of bed and ran for the buzzer. "Who is it?" Harry asked.

"It's George, let me up," the voice responded. Harry was ecstatic. And as he poured himself a bowl of cereal, the door opened. There stood George Costanza, in the flesh. "So mote it be" Harry whispered, "so mote it be…."


	10. Chapter 10: A Galling Gadfly

**A/N**

 **Fellas, this has been a long time coming. I know, I know. Turns out, I didn't have a stomach bug. I have mono. And on mono, you can't drink. And when I can't drink, I can't be an inebriated author. BUT! I defied my doctor's orders today (I already have once or twice already :P ) to celebrate! Today, I made the impossible happen. I did ten pages of fairly good quality academic writing in under two and a half hours and made my deadline. So this celebration is: booze! Is it only 3:45? Yes. Do I get triply worse hangovers? Yes. Am I still going to drink excessively? No! Two drinks tops. So about 3.5 ounces of cheap brandy. Or maybe one of those ounces could be that limoncello I've been saving for a special occasion.**

 **Granted, not drinking has been very good for my health, mono notwithstanding. I've lost 15 lbs since I stopped drinking as often, though that was before my mono, and I guess also because of healthier eating habits? I dunno. It's nice. Highly recommend. In any case, cheers, ya bastards.**

* * *

Disclaimer: Normally, I say fuck you. Today, I'm not so sure. It's been a good day. I'm feeling alright. Not so cynical. How's about a calmer "Screw you?" Nah, doesn't carry the same wait.

* * *

Disclaimer, take 2: fuck you.

* * *

"No fucking way," said Harry, his mouth agape, "it's Jason Alexander!"

"Who's Jason Alexander?" responded the stocky man in front of him, "I'm George Costanza!"

Harry was confused, but very quickly understood. The demon he'd summoned created a real-life George Costanza for him—the character as he exists on the wonderful television show _Seinfeld_. Not the actor, but a living breathing George Costanza. One who looked the exact same as the actor, but who was, for all intents and purposes, a different person. This George Costanza had the lived experience of the characters—the memories of his childhood, his wild college years as the leader of the juggling club, his cons and schemes, his hopes and his dreams, and, most importantly, the strange feelings in his heart whenever he thinks of Jerry. This George Costanza, standing in front of him, was truly born to Frank and Estelle Costanza.

Harry's open mouth slowly shifted into a smile, "George, it's good to see ya!"

"Jerry? What the hell happened to you? You're a kid again! You look just like you did in junior high!"

"It's magic, George! Magic is real!" Harry said, fine that George thought he was a younger Jerry.

"Magic?!" George responded, shocked.

"Yes, George, magic! Not the abracadabra, pull a rabbit out of a hat type, but _real_ magic!" The floor shook with an unearthly, hollow laughter. George leapt up into the air.

"What the hell was that, Jerry?" George yelped.

"Our magic studio audience!" Harry said, and the ghostly crowd cheered.

"This has got to be some type of joke, Jerry," George said, sweating profusely. "I can see you pulled a fast one. Come on out, Kramer and Elaine!"

"No, George. It's real! All of it! I'll prove it to you!" Harry exclaimed. "Yo, Susan, come on out!"

Several seconds later, Susan the ghost passed through Harry's dormitory door.

"Oh, you've got to be fucking kidding me, Harry, you shit! This guy murdered me!" Susan yelled.

"Jesus fuck!" George responded upon seeing the undead apparition. "That's my dead wife! Well—almost wife. What the fuck Jerry?"

"Jerry?" Susan asked. "No, this is Harry. Harry Potter. He's a first year student at Wizard School."

"Wizard School? Harry? I didn't kill her. Everyone thinks I killed her!" George said, and he collapsed on the ground, passed out.

"Well, what's the deal with that?" Harry asked. The unholy crowd chuckled in ghostly unison.

At that moment, the door slammed open, and in came Ron Weasley, sliding across the floor "Oh, hey, ho, Harry Potter!" He collided with George's crumpled form and fell on top of him. "Who's this dilapidated portly fellow?"

Harry quickly explained to Ron what had just transpired.

"You mean to say that you summoned a Trump-supporting demon and created George Costanza? That's absolutely wicked, Harry. Just wait till Dr. Spock hears about this!"

"No, no, we can't tell anybody about this. I'm not too certain people will be pleased about there being a forty-year-old man living with me in my dormitory. Y'know it's bad enough that Scabbers was an adult man, too."

"What the fuck?!" Ron exclaimed, shocked.

"Oh, did I not tell you about that?" Harry nonchalantly asked. "I assumed I'd told you."

"When you assume, you make an ass out of yourself, Harry, mate." Ron responded.

"Yeah, well, he's Peter Pettigrew, he works for Voldemort, and Voldemort is back." Harry said.

"Ah, gotcha. Thanks for the heads up, mate. Bloody hell. Wicked." Ron responded. He paused and turned back towards the body of George Costanza. "Reckon we should wake him up?" He asked.

"Yeah, probably. I think it would do wise to help calm him down. And Susan," he addressed the ghost, "it might be best if you weren't here when he was awake.

"I am way ahead of you," the ghost said, leaving the dormitory. She had been there throughout the conversation without saying a single word or making a single muscle, such that I had forgotten she was there.

Harry and Ron shuffled over to George's unconscious form and grabbed under his shoulders and heaved with all the weight their eleven-year-old bodies could muster. Thankfully, their magic powers kicked in and they were alright. They heaved him onto the couch. George awoke with a shake, in tears.

"Jerry, I just had the strangest dream! You were young, and there was a ghost, and I told you I loved you." George wiped his eyes, looked up, and saw Harry and Ron. "Now you, too, Kramer?! What the fuck is happening?"

 _Kramer?_ mouthed Ron to Harry, but Harry shook his head and mouthed, _I'll explain later_.

Harry caressed George's balding head, "Shh, it'll be alright, George. Want me to get you some food?"

George sniffled and nodded, "Yes, please."

Harry leapt up and ran over to the kitchenette. He opened the compartment and only found one item: a can of beans. The label read _Wizard Beans_. "You've got to be fucking kidding me," Harry muttered. He tapped his wand onto the can and uttered the can-opening spell _Alohamora Canicus_ , and the top popped off like a water bottle cap under extreme pressure. Harry poured the wizard beans into a bowl and whispered a warming charm, _Warmicus the fuckicus upicus_. The beans quickly came to a nice temperature, and Harry cast the spoon-summoning charm, _Exspoonto Patronum_ , and a silvery spoon popped up in his hand (The secret for this spell is you have to be really fuckin hungry, or at least remember a time when you were).

Harry carried the stuff over to George and fed him wizard beans. nom nom nom. Ron and George, it seemed, had been talking to each other about magic, "I still don't quite understand why it's called wizard chess—" George was saying, but he cut himself off as he saw Harry return. "Mm, beans!" George exclaimed.

"No, they're wizard beans, mate," Ron said, but Harry kicked him in the shins.

* * *

"I'm warning you, Harry, nothing good is going to come of your newfound friendship with George Costanza," the ghost of Susan told Harry as he scurried to his Transfiguration class. "He is a selfish, ruthless, cruel man with no remorse. He makes Voldemort look like the epitome of compassion."

"That's kind of a fuckin' stretch to be making, Susan, especially to a guy whose parents were murdered by Voldemort." Harry pointed to his S-shaped scar. "George is a character of the jealous, neurotic human. He is us, and we are he."

"Don't say I didn't warn you," Susan said, and she turned away and floated out to the Courtyard below.

Harry entered the Transfiguration classroom as the bell rang and sat down next to Bartleby. Transfiguration was with the Hufflepuffs for the lone member of Seinfeld House.

"Good evening, pimps and players," said Professor McDonaldagall. "Today we will be doing some shit irrelevant to the plot. Please get out your wands." The students, most of whom had been expecting a practical lesson, already had their wands on the table. Harry reached into the backpocket of his jeans and pulled out his wand and placed it on the table in front of him. Bartleby just stared forward.

McDonaldagall distributed, using magic, some sort of item which had no bearing on the following conversation. Each student began to attempt to make some sort of unimportant transfiguration to that object.

"Oi, Bartleby," Harry whispered, "How do I perform this unnecessary action?"

Bartleby stared.

"Can you help me out?" Harry asked.

"I would prefer not to," Bartleby responded.

"Gee, thanks a lot mate," Harry said.

It was at that moment that a half-naked man burst in through the doors wearing nothing but a white towel. "Jerry, I've been looking all over for you. How do I work the shower in your apartment? I tried the knobs but it's not working."

Harry slunk down in his seat, pretending not to notice. This did not work. This figure, obviously George, had lumbered over Harry's table and placed a hand on his shoulder.

"Harry," McDonaldagall inquired while eating McNuggets transfigured from wooden blocks ( **FUCK GAMP'S LAWS HE DOESN'T RUN SHIT HERE** ), "do you know this strapping fellow?"

"Strapping? Well, you're not too bad yourself lady," George said, turning away from Harry to McDonaldagall.

"What do you have under that towel there?" She asked, sensually.

"I wouldn't look right now. I just got out of the pool. Shrinkage, you know."

"Nothing a little magic can't fix," McDonaldagall said sultrily.

"Ok, Pause." Harry said. The entire scene froze. Harry's classmates, save Bartleby, looked on at George and McDonaldagall making passes at each other with a mixture of looks of fear and fascination. McDonaldagall was biting her lip.

"You haven't been present much this time around, author. Can we just undo this? And can you cancel this lesson or something? I don't really feel like working right now."

 **No can do, Harry, m'boytoy.**

"Why not? This is a rather dull and humorless installation. All that happened was George came, cried, and is now trying to fuck Professor McDonaldagall."

 **Normally I'd expect George to do that in the opposite order.**

"Funny, Inebriated Author. Very funny. But my point is, when is something going to happen? This has not been very plot centric."

 **I'll have you know, Harry, I can't write plot for shit. But you're right. This is weird. I promised to keep the erotica on the lower end, so I'll help you break this up. I recommend you do to George what you do best.**

"Gotcha, author. Can do." Harry paused. "Oh, also, could you resume time?"

Time resumed.

"I'm really starting to like this magic, Jerry!" George called over to Harry. But George was stunned to see Harry/Jerry running straight towards him.

"HIYYYYYA!" Harry yelled, as he kicked George in his water-shrunken wiener.

"Oh Sweet mother Estelle!" George gasped as he collapsed on the ground, in immaculate pain. But he didn't fly off into the distance as usually happened when Harry kicked someone in the dick. No, George was somehow stronger than his previous foes. He started growling and slowly picked himself up off the floor, his towel barely managing to cover his sexual extremities.

"Jerry, what the hell are you doing?!" He grunted. His skin began to rumble and a shimmering red aura began to form about his body.

"I'm not fucking Jerry, ok George! I've told you that!" Harry yelled back. The room began to quake slightly. Books fell off children's desks. Professor McDonaldagall was frozen in horror and lust. Hannah Abbott began to whimper. Bartleby stared.

"You've been acting real strange lately, Jerry! Is there something you want to tell me?" George shouted over the sounds of the crashes of various items. The aura surrounding him shone brighter and cast a frigid warmth about the classroom. The hair around his bald spot stood as if he were conducting static electricity.

"George…" Harry started, but was interrupted by a glass-shattering Godzilla-like scream from George. Everybody in the classroom covered their ears on instinct. George threw his hands to his side and continued to scream. The energy now quickly emanating from his body condensed into two spheres of pure magic in his hands. Surges of red lightning crackled from his body and beams of light moved from his heart down towards his arms, strengthening the power collected there.

"JEEEE-RRRRY!" George shouted, aiming his hands at Harry. "JEEEE-RRRRY!" George shouted again, mustering all of his will into the magic in his hands. "SEEEEINFEEEELD!" George screamed with all of his being—and the magic burst forth from his hands and sped toward Harry. Harry did not react in time and was hit with the full force of the magic. Upon impact, his body was carried twenty feet backwards through the air, he hit the wall by the door of the classroom, and he fell to the ground.

George heaved heavily and looked at his hands in utter fear, and he began to scream in agony. The magic which had just been surging through his being had completely vanished, and he collapsed to the floor in exhaustion.

"Well shit," Professor McDonaldagall said, as she slowly retrieved a Chicken McNugget from her Chicken McNugget pouch and slowly nibbled on it. "That was… quite… unexpected to say the least. Bartleby, do be a dear and fetch Professors Dumbledore and Newman for me, won't you?"

Bartleby stared.

"Ah, right, my mistake. Miss Abbott, then?"

"Right away, Professor," Hannah mumbled, and ran off.

"So, where were we?" McDonaldagall said.

* * *

Ten minutes later, Hannah returned with the Professors in tow. McDonaldagall continued teaching the class as though nothing had happened. George Costanza's weakened body still lied prostrate in the middle of the classroom, and Harry's body—potentially dead—was still collapsed on the floor by the door.

"Jesus fuck, Minotaur, m'boy, what happened?" Dumbledore asked.

"This sexy George Costanza fellow came in here and Skadooshed Harry Potter," McDonaldagall responded. ( **A/N yes, her name is Minotaur McDonaldagall** ).

"Did… Did you say George Costanza?" Newman shakily asked.

"Yes, Professor," McDonaldagall said, "Which is why I thought you might be interested."

"I am indeed interested, Professor. Quite interested." Professor Newman drew his wand and slowly walked towards Costanza's unconscious body. He cast a quick diagnostic spell. "He's alive. Unconscious." Newman paused. "Fascinating. Truly fascinating. This is the real George Costanza. I don't believe it."

"Mm, Pardon me, Professor Newman, m'boy, the real George Costanza?" Dumbledore asked.

"Yes, Albus. I am afraid so. It seems somebody has summoned this being with Dark Magic. Just as I, too, was once summoned." Newman responded. Nobody in the class gasped because most of them were still kind of in shock from the whole fuckin battle scene that had just happened. Yeah so Newman got summoned, too. This is the real Newman from Seinfeld. Not Wayne Knight.

"Well, shit." Dumbledore said. "Oh, I'd nearly forgotten!" Dumbledore turned around and pranced towards the back of the classroom. He swished his wand and Harry's body levitated up from the ground. Dumbledore stretched his arm back as far as he could and then smacked Harry across the face.

"OW!" Harry yelled, although his voice sounded different than it had before.

"Well, he's alive at least!" Dumbledore said, "though I'm not entirely certain what's to be made of these other changes."

"Changes?" Harry asked.

"I'll let the others see for themselves." Dumbledore said, and he stepped aside, letting the entire class observe Harry.

"SEINFELD?! What the HELL are you doing here?!" Newman growled.

"What? Seinfeld? I'm Harry!" Harry retorted.

"Don't be so sure about that, young Harry m'boy old sport fuck fuck fuck." Dumbledore conjured a mirror out of a piece of rubble. Lo and behold, the face looking at Harry through the mirror was not his own. It was Jerry Seinfeld's. With his S-Shaped scar. What's the deal with that?


	11. Chapter 11: A Cultural Clash

**[MEGA A/N. Yeah this is a mess. The first half moreso than the second. Bear with me. Rawr. The second half of this-and this disclaimer-were written long after the fact. Never got around to publishing it, but realized it would be inauthentic if I didn't publish it.]**

* * *

 **A/N**

 **Back so soon. Fuck a doctor's order, I was hanging with my friends. And now I'm back. I'm going to keep this short and unsweet. Idk, maybe see what other characters have been up to until now. Been focusing on the Seinfeld subplot, which is important to the ultimate direction, but there's room for more. I've strayed from the path of fan fiction criqitue, which is both good and unfortuante. Idk. I had a lot more to drink than I anticipated I would tonight. Yeah.**

* * *

Disclaimer: fufufuck a you

* * *

I wonder what Luna Lovegood is up to now. The would-be seeress in all of the different fanfiction. Luna is just hangin at home reading manga. You have to read it the opposite way, that's the manga manga way. Pronounced the Western way, "Man-Guh" like man the person and guh my reaction to this inclusion.

Dr. Spock's (Hermione's) first few weeks at Hogwarts had been interesting. She was smart and a hard worker and her effort showed. I think we all have the capacity to apply ourselves in our work, and sometimes that's something I struggle with. Even if it's a project I'm passionate about. I get stressed sometimes and shitpost online instead. But, we all have the power to move forward if we so please. And damn it, we should please more. I digress.

Dr. Spock hung out a lot with Neville these first weeks, since her friend Ronald Bilius Weasley was off doing Seinfeld shit with Harry Potter. Neville was alright. Kind of a scrub. But Dr. Spock was fascinated to see how wizards did stuff. She walked into a room once and it was filled with fire crabs! ahhh! Fire crabs is a Weasley STD. Because of their hair, y'know, and crabs. I'll see myself out.

Bartleby did no work. He stared a lot.

Oh! I remembered some canon stuff. Well my canon stuff. As in not canon stuff. Dr. Spock spent a lot of time with Harry writing inter-generational _Star Trek_ fanfiction. Her facebook profile picture was anime. So let's piece together some of her history together. I am inebriated and hadn't considered any of this before because I can't write plot for shit.

I imagine Hermione Spock is a fan of The Original Series. She's not a fan of the misogyny, but likes the campiness and, of course, has a soft spot for Leonard Nimoy and his sexy voice. She doesn't quite know how to put it, at this age, but his voice makes her feel like when you go to Chipotle and they pack your burrito really thick. That fuckin sexy.

Dr. Spock also spent a lot of time with Professor McDonaldagall. McDonaldagall was the only professor who seemed to have a taste for Muggle cuisine, as evidenced by her constant snacking on McDonald's food. Yum. Or sorry, did I say muggle? I meant no magic shit fuckers. That's the true origin of nomaj.

Y'know, this chapter is going nowhere fast. I'm gonna call it quits for the time being. Will resume later perhaps.

* * *

Later:

Yeah, no dice.

A little while longer:

Did you know that when they play Skyrim in Harry Potter, the only side quest they are allowed to do is the Mage's College? Shit's goofy.

* * *

A week later: **[A/N Actually more than that teehee. And now I'm writing this even further along hahahahahahahhahahahah].**

"Oi, are you ok?"

 **Huh? Where am I? When am I?**

"Oh, thank Christ, you're ok."

 **Wha…?**

"Author, it's me. Harry."

 **What's going on, Harry m'boy?**

"You got really schmacked, Mr. Inebriated Author, sir. It's been a rough week."

 **Sorry, Harry. That alcohol really puts me over.**

"Yeah, you fell asleep on the keyboard and accidentally deleted half of the school's East Wing. It took a team of twenty Ministry fuckwits and five professors to fix most of it."

 **Sorry, bruv. Hey, wait a second, what's up with your voice?**

"Don't you remember last time?"

 **Ohhhh shit. Yeah. You're Jerry Seinfeld now.**

"I'm not Jerry Seinfeld, I'm Harry Potter."

 **Same difference.**

"Pardon me?"

 **Never mind.**

Harry paused, ignoring a crucial future plot point, "So…."

 **Soooo…**

"Are you not going to ask what happened in the past week?"

 **I mean, if you'd like to tell me.**

"Bollocks, I'll tell it all."

 **Just give me a few more minutes. I need to drink some water and stay hydrated.**

"Crikey."

* * *

 **A/N**

 **Yikes. All I'll say. Up until my conversation with Harry, that was all authentic inebriation. Not to say that the rest of it isn't real. Because it totally is. Not sarcastically. But yeah, that was a whole other level. Um. It's a week and a half later. I'm up to my neck in deadlines. Yet here I am. What does it mean to be human?**

uoy kcuf :remialcsiD

* * *

 **So, Harry, pray tell, what happened?**

"Well…" Harry began. SWOOSH, cue camera and perspective shift. Cool colors everywhere. Harry is now the narrator. But not actually. Because it's still me the author. But we're going to pretend. "I woke up in the hospital wing, body aching. Growing pains, it felt like. I didn't know how right I would be. My clothes felt inordinately tight. I remember looking down and seeing my pants only made it down to my knees. My hairy, hairy knees. Maybe I got hit by a hairy knee spell, I wondered. Magical Super Saiyan George Costanza could have done that. But as I hopped up to go take a whizz **(Haha, take a wiz, more like. Wizard.)** , I noticed my pants were on too tight. I wordlessly summoned my wand from the table without any prior practice and cast a severing charm on my pants. Needless to say, I was surprised when a post-pubescent wizard wiener flopped out."

 **WHOA there, Harry, I interrupted. Not that kind of fanfiction.**

"Not yet, at least," Harry responded before continuing, "I was both pleased and kind of put off by this new and improved appendage. I then decided, ' _Hm, this may be about the right time to look away from my magical wiener and at the mirror. For no reason in particular.'_ I knew something was wrong when the mirror was at wiener height. I lifted it up to where my face was and saw Jerry Seinfeld's face looking back at me."

 **That was a very elaborate description when a couple of sentences could have sufficed.**

"BUT MY EMERALD ORBS, Author, my EMERALD. FUCKING. ORBS. I ain't shit in the fan fiction world without 'em."

 **Wait, do you know you're in fan fiction?**

"I'm not entirely sure at this point what to believe! First I've got a talking owl, then I'm taking on tropes, now I"m Jerry Seinfeld? Just pick something and stick to it, jesus FUCKING Christ!" Harry said, with a particular emphasis on the word 'FUCKING.'

 **You're right. I'm sorry. I'm sorry.**

"And to make things worse, I don't know what it is, maybe something in the air, maybe the presence of a cultural icon in the form of George Costanza, EVERYONE AND THEIR FUCKING MOTHERS ARE QUOTING POP CULTURE ALL THE FUCKING TIME. And yes, I mean their fucking mothers very literally. Hermione got a wizard text from the wizard internet cafe from her parents that literally only said 'Use the force.' Ron has started quoting Seinfeld in every other sentence, which will be especially strange now given that I now possess this normcore body. Even fucking Bartleby was quoting MY IMMORTAL—Yes, that My Immortal—the other day, and he doesn't fucking do SHIT. Malfoy, on the other hand, quoted Benito Mussolini. Kind of pop culture-ish? I don't fucking know. I swear, if another person tries to make an in-joke with me about pop culture, or tries to teach a wizard about pop culture, I'm going to have a fucking conniption."

 **Looks like you have a lot of feelings about this, Harry. And that you're already there on the conniption.**

"I JUST DON'T FUCKING UNDERSTAND IT!" Said this strangely self-insert Harry. "Yes, every now and then, sure, maybe. But I hate how these are their characters now. Just mindlessly repeating things others have written."

 **Speaking of which, check out my other fanfiction, where I just copied the first few chapters of Philosopher's Stone and replaced every instance of Harry Potter with Jerry Seinfeld.**

"That was fucking hilarious, Author, and everyone should know that. I am beside myself with rage right now."

 **What if… What if I just delete all of pop culture from this universe?**

"Is that a fucking joke? What would happen to me, jackass?"

 **Fair point. Just spit balling, though. No need to shoot the messenger.**

"Go fuck yourself, author. This is your fault."

 **How is this my fault?!**

"If you hadn't been dicking around and finishing your schoolwork, I could have like freed Sirius by this point, done some other convoluted shit, been an absolute madlad prankster, OR COULD HAVE AVOIDED THE FUCKING SHITTY POP CULTURE REFERENCES. In fucking defense against the Dark Arts Class, Professor Quirrell literally said ' _That's not a knife, THIS is a knife,_ ' while referring to his wand. I'm not even certain why he's here and why he's wearing a turban. Didn't you establish Voldemort is alive?"

 **Don't tell me what I've established.**

"You're right. I'm sorry. I've kind of lost it. This isn't your fault. What should we do going forward?"

 **Oh, umm. Harry, I just noticed something.**

"Yes?"

 **When I passed out, it seems that I did more than destroy part of the castle.**

"What's that?"

 **It… Well, it seems that I kind of landed on the pop culture key on my keyboard—and broke it. It'll be a little while before I can fix it.**

"I'm going to bed."

 **No you're not, I control what you're doing dumbass.**

"I don't care! I am _GOING_ to bed. NOW!"

 **Calm yours—OW!**

"Yeah, you like that cramp, jackass? That's the power I've got over you. Let me go to sleep!"

 **Jeez, fine fine.**


	12. Chapter 12: A Cosmological Cameo

**A/N**

 **OK SO. Lots has gone on since the Inebriated Author last took a shit on his keyboard at 2 AM. Work was done, personal growth was accomplished, goals were met, and nights were spent alone playing video games. I done had ideas, yes, absolutely, but I was lazy. Tonight, however, is different.**

 **I began the night with a whiskey tasting at the local higher-end liquor store. Had some strong shit. Then, I played dungeons and dragons. Then I had a high-quality cranberry juniper beer called "Luciferic Aspirations." Was honestly delicious, highly recommend. Not sponsored. Really. Who the fuck would sponsor this garbage. Then I watched AMVs that I watched when I was 12 and had a flood of memories return to me. Yikes. Then I went to my friends house and drank orange juice mixed with tequila while we played Pokemon snap. Noice.**

 **In any case, I return to you in good faith. Let's fuck shit up.**

* * *

Disclaimer: What's the deal with disclaimers? Fuck that noise.

* * *

Previously on Harry Potter and the Inebriated Author:

'Real' George Costanza turned Harry Potter into Jerry Seinfeld using magic. Then the author fell asleep on the keyboard and messed up Hogwarts. Haha epic burn. Then cultural references abounded. Dumb shit, y'know. Also I said Luna was at home but I'm about to retcon that. Fuck you.

* * *

 **So using Inebriated Author powers, I fixed the pop culture problem. Seems that all it takes for an author to remove needless pop culture references from their works is to get their head out of their asses for once.**

"Feisty one you are!" said Will from the Inbetweeners. Dumbledore appeared out of thin air and kicked him in the cock.

"Mmhmm, yes, Will, sorry for kicking you in your masculine hot dog. It seems we still have a bigger problem at hand. Young Harry here, or should I say, _Jerry_ ," at which point, Harry/Jerry glared, "is stuck in this present form."

"I don't see the problem here, Professor," George Costanza chimed in. Oh yeah, they're all fucking together for some fucking reason. Fuck fuck fuckity fuck. Ass.

"Hrmmmm," Professor McDonaldagall harped, "I am serious and a tough love person. Put in effort with me and it'll pay off. I'll smirk as you mouth off to the wrong authority figure."

"Indeed, Professor," Dumbledore responded, lightheartedly with added emphasis through his blue fuckin twinkly eyes. "Yes, we have the problem of young Mr. Potter. To that end, I think it best to invite a professional to help us out."

"Surely, Albus, you don't mean—" McDonaldagall started but was cut off by Dumbledore.

"Unfortunately, I do mean." Dumbledore turned towards Harry, "M'boy, I'm sorry to put you through this garbage. You deserve better. You really do." Also then he totally banged Grindelwald who happened to be there. Topical. Oh wait, sorry, not that kind of fanfiction.

"Professor," Harry responded, "what on Earth do you mean? What's not to like with an expert on demons?"

"I imagine you'll see very shortly."

And Dumbledore was right. No sooner than the words had left the oratory crevice before his nasal mountain than the doors to the main hall popped open and an ornery slender crazy hair motherfucker popped in and slid across the floor. Harry was struck. This fucker was the spitting image of Cosmo Kramer from fucking Seinfeld. WHAT THE FUCK. He did the entrance.

"Hey!"

"Kramer?!" George Costanza yelled, "The gang is getting back together!"

George ran towards Kramer and embraced him in a mighty magical bear hug. Take the word bear to have, perhaps, several definitions. Kramer looked towards Dumbledore and gestured towards George. He mouthed the phrase ' _this the one?'_ Dumbledore sullenly nodded.

"It's so good to see you, Kramer! Did you know that magic is real?! And that Jerry's a real wizard?!"

"Crazy, story George. Almost as wild as Bob Sacamano. Could you let me go for a second?"

George immediately let go and backed off sheepishly. "Sorry to trouble you, mate. Just missed you, is all."

Suddenly, the door to the Great Hall burst open. Out came several students, including Luna Lovegood, who was indeed at Hogwarts despite any previous assertions that she was not. "Uncle Cosmo!" she yelled, and ran and hugged the man.

Harry turned inwards, like metaphorically, and was all like, "uhhhh what?"

Cosmo, sensing Harry's distress, quickly walked over. "So, uh, y'see Harry, I'm actually me. I'm not a demon like George Costanza. Michael Richards is my twin brother. I'm Cosmo Thucydides, Pandora Lovegood's—and Michael Richards's—brother. Michael Richards is a stage name, he's a squib."

Harry's jaw dropped. "What the fuck."

"Y'know they say you're supposed to show not tell, but I honestly don't know how the fuck you'd do that in this situation. Sorry, Harry." Kramer said, and then he spasmed a bit. "Michael based his character off of me for the show, if it's worth anything. I'm the closest thing there could be to a real Cosmo Kramer."

"But you are a real Cosmo Kramer." Harry responded.

"Magic, young Mr. Potter," Cosmo said, then spasmed some more.

"So you're…"

"A Demonologist. Mighty convenient, isn't it?" Kramer asked. Harry nodded. "Now, of course, there's other things I do, too. I tend to do odd wizard jobs for my pal Wizard Bob Sacamano. I also never officially quit my job at the wizard bagel store, though that's a story for another time."

Luna Lovegood chimed in, "I take it, Harry, that you're familiar with my Uncle Cosmo? Uncle Michael loves poking fun at him as he performs on the hit television series _Seinfeld_. We all love to binge watch that shit while we play old school runescape ~smiley face~."

"Yes, Luna," Harry responded, "I'm quite familiar with that show."

"Now that you mention it, Harry, I do see you're quite possessed by that Jerry fellow's body. Or is it the other way around?" Luna asked.

"Way I see it, I can't tell where Harry ends and Jerry begins," Cosmo piped in.

"Shut the fuck up, imbeciles, we have work to do," Dumbledore said.

"Oh, also I was a Ravenclaw," Cosmo said.

"Yes, thank you." Dumbledore added. "Well, I reckon that should tide our single reader over for the next four months."

"Agreed," Harry said.

 **You have my blessing, Harry m'boy.**


End file.
